


Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.5

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are the time's that try men's souls."<br/>One year post-513</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.5

                                                                   
  
_“I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been.”_ _©Coverdale/Marsden_  
_You can’t change where you’ve been but you can change where you’re going._ _©Kin_  
           
         
      Bone-tired. Brian had been edging toward it on the way to the hotel, but adrenaline and the whirling dervish in his head managed to keep the fatigue at bay. Until now. He hit the proverbial brick wall. Even the bellman’s form-fitting charcoal uniform and woodsy cologne went unnoticed. He shoved a bill in his hand and sent him on his way without an iota of attraction in the toned body.  
  
      Too exhausted to undress, he threw himself on the king-sized bed and kicked off his Italian loafers with a grunt, sending them halfway across the room to land with muted thuds. He ran his hands across the indigo duvet and as icy silk met heated skin, a faint whiff of lavender tickled his nose. Not that he didn’t like it, but the scent was more evocative of Jane Austen and English gardens than Manhattan and hard steel. His eyes roamed around the spacious area, taking note of the elegantly chic gray and blue decor. _Blue._ Naturally. What were the odds? All he needed was sunshine yellow in the color scheme to finish him off.  
  
                                                                                       
  
_“Loneliness is a cloak you wear, a deep shade of blue is always there._  
_The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore when you’re without love.”_ _©S.Walker_  
                                       
      The ceiling wouldn't give him answers. His body might have said enough, but his brain wouldn’t afford him the same luxury. As he had done on the plane and in the taxi, he wondered what the hell he was doing. The simple truth, although he vehemently tried to deny it, was that the thrill of the hunt and immediate relief of a random fuck had started to lose its appeal. Parts of him other than his cock craved what nameless tricks failed to satisfy. With increasing frequency, a physical diet of one person, one particular person seemed more enticing. His jaw clenched at the idea, the tiny vein in his temple pulsing as he swore in the empty room.  
  
      His self-mocking laugh shattered the silence. “You’re a sorry son of a bitch, Kinney.”  
  
      A squint at the nightstand clock told him it was after midnight. Despite the neon reminder of his exhaustion, he vibrated with tension, his body wound tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping. Any attempt to close his eyes would result in endless thrashing amid tangled sheets and repeated punches to his pillow.  
  
      With a suffering sigh, he abandoned sleep and fumbled for a cigarette. He flicked his lighter, the spiral flame casting his face in a golden glow, and lit up. Holding the tube between his thumb and index finger, he took a deep drag, turning the ash bright orange.                                    

                                                                                                [](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kinfic2/21159744/44512/44512_original.png)

      He padded toward the well-stocked bar, ready to raise holy hell if he didn’t have his requested Beam. He needn’t have worried. After making a mental note for Cynthia to send an email of thanks, he downed half his glass in a thirsty gulp and collapsed into the cushioned chair by the window. Legs stretched out, he twirled a restless finger in the remaining liquid.  
                                                                 
                                                                 
                                                                                                       

      Never one for introspection, at least until six years ago, he wondered if a man, a gay man in particular, lost perspective by thinking with his dick, if never looking further ahead than the next fuck rather than the next five or ten years held him back instead of propelling him forward.

      When he took Justin home that fateful first night, he introduced him to a world the seventeen year old had only dreamed about. But the behaviors and philosophies of the freeing and thrilling gay lifestyle proved to be a demoralizing conundrum. Because underneath his enthusiastic acceptance, Justin measured what they had against a hetero societal norm.

**My principles are very pagan. I live my own life as it pleases me. I am young, rich, and beautiful, and live serenely for the sake of pleasure and enjoyment.** _©L.Sacher-Masoch_

       Their relationship was never supposed to be permanent. Hell, there was never supposed to be a relationship at all, let alone one ending in commitment. The word wasn’t in his vocabulary—at first. He was honest from the beginning, brutally so some would say, getting the point across by any cruel means possible. Staggeringly unprepared and doggedly unwilling to fall in love, he made sure Justin understood that it was not in his nature to be faithful, that he was going to fuck whenever and whoever. But his unwavering “I don’t believe in love, I believe in fucking” dogma was no match for Justin’s persistent _I came, I saw, and I will conquer_ mentality.

     He chugged the rest of his drink with a grimace and poured another, shrugging away the nagging voice that pointed things out he didn’t want to acknowledge. He might be able to run from the Pitts, even from Justin, but he couldn’t run from himself. The last one wasn’t a quintessential element to his existence, but it was the one that mattered, the one he had to live with day in and day out.

     He prodded his brain to give him something kind to work with but only found examples of how reprehensible he was when his demons surfaced. If he ignored them, which was not often the case, they withered. If he didn’t, they materialized as vengeful reprisal and cold-hearted rage. His devious manipulations when he first found out about the fiddler and his drunken visit to Michael after Justin left yet _again_ were more than enough proof.

     Unsettled by a rush of emotion, he drained the last of the liquor. It didn’t take long to mentally leap from past to present. After so many months, had Justin had given up on him, on them, and moved on? He fought a rising panic. That they could be over, that he could be with someone else....

     Without warning, a primal spear of jealousy pierced him with such gut-wrenching fury his knees buckled. His staccato gasps quickened as the jagged green blade ran up and down his spine. He gritted his teeth as he struggled for control but he couldn't fight it. The sensation was too powerful an adversary. Rendered helpless, he hurled the glass against the far wall with a guttural cry. Perversely satisfied at the crash, he was disappointed when it didn’t splinter into tiny shards. He sank onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Frightened by a cache of unspent tears, he didn’t know what to do, how to fix what was broken.

_You're fucking selfish. And you're a coward. A fucking bomb wasn't enough incentive to change? You didn't let him go to New York for him. You let him go for yourself._ _That's why you stopped calling, why you stopped visiting. Because it was the easy way out. And you think by showing up here now, you can change everything that's happened? It doesn’t work that way._

    With rational thinking teetering on the edge of insanity, he needed clarity. He shucked his clothes and headed toward the bathroom. The shower's needle-sharp spray prickled his skin, the warm water softening knotted muscles and quieting jumpy nerves.

     His choices were his own, right or wrong. He couldn’t go back and unmake them. He may be guilty of every hurtful word and neglectful act, but he accepted responsibility. What irked was that he couldn’t figure out what lay behind them. Was it weakness or strength, fear or self-centeredness?

     And now he had another choice—to stay locked in the past, drinking and doping like a pathetic party guest who overstayed his welcome, or grab his dick and go forward to have a chance at a real life. Even if Justin didn’t want to have one with him. That option threatened to incinerate whatever control he had regained. It hurt too much. But he had to take the risk. Time to shit or get off the pot as Jack used to say.

     They had to talk. He owed him that much. What Justin chose to do afterwards was up to him.

 

**Continue here:** <http://archiveofourown.org/works/909897>


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